Rather Not Say
by Lucifer's Garden
Summary: She knows that no force on Earth could get him to say the real words hiding under the surface. Short oneshot, slight JoDean.


None of Supernatural's trademark characters belong to me. They belong to the show's creators.

Anyway, this here is just a sweet little one-shot with slight Jo/Dean that takes place after or near the end of No Exit. My first Supernatural fic. Enjoy!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Rather Not Say**

She hurries out of the tiny, steam-filled bathroom as fast as she can. After today – after being locked in a dark coffin underground while a phantom convict pawed at her – she is not too keen on small, enclosed spaces. Even the hotel room feels almost suffocating. She had opted to go get pizza in Sam's place, but he had insisted that she stay in and relax after her ordeal. He always was the gentleman.

"Shit."

Something about the intensity of the expletive catches her attention. Across the hotel room from her, sitting in obvious pain on the mattress, is one of the two young men that had saved her life today. Dean. The one who clearly feels the most responsible for her, and is therefore generally an ass to her. She doesn't really mind anymore. She knows he only does it to keep her on her toes.

"What is it?" she asks, finishing off towel-drying her hair (it would be awhile before she could forget the feeling of those rotten fingers stroking her scalp).

He glances up at her, wincing as he pulls off his jacket. "Nothing," he grunts, now only in a white undershirt. "Just strained some muscles a little. Saving your ass sure leaves a mark."

She makes a face at him and moves towards the bed. He watches her somewhat warily, as if he thinks she will smack him or something. Instead she climbs onto the mattress behind him, kneeling at his back. He stiffens, his face betraying both discomfort and intrigue. She can see the dirty thoughts just racing through his head already. Pervert.

"Scooch forward," she commands, resting her hands on his shoulders. He remains motionless, staring at her through the mirror on the wall across from them. "It's called a massage, Dean. What, you and Sam never give each other backrubs now and then?"

"Uh, no. We're brothers, and both very, very straight," he insists, eyeing her as though she has grown another head. Then his expression becomes playful. "Although, sometimes I wonder about Sammy boy . . ."

She digs her fingers into his shoulders hard enough to silence him. 'Sammy boy' occupies a very soft part of her heart, the place reserved for puppies and small children. Nobody, not even the untouchable Dean Winchester, is allowed to insult him in her presence.

"Now then," she says cheerfully. "Just relax and try to think happy thoughts."

"Scarlet Johansson wearing nothing but chocolate."

"Not _that_ kind of happy."

He shuts up the moment her fingers get to work. She grins in satisfaction as a groan escapes him. "Jesus Christ, Jo . . ."

"Down boy," she teases, kneading the skin where his neck and shoulders meet. "If I'd known you were this easy to silence I would have suggested it sooner."

He snorts. "You just wanted to get your hands on me. Admit it."

She hates that little smirk of his almost as much as she loves it. He sighs pleasurably as she begins working the shoulder blades. "Think of this as payback, in part, for you and Sam rescuing me today." She hesitates. "I never did thank you, did I?"

"Your actions are speaking way louder than words at this point," he assures her, letting his head fall back to rest against her.

She smiles down at him, but his eyes are closed. Rarely does she get such a liberal opportunity to study his face, and she takes a moment to examine him. A girl would have to be either blind or an extreme lesbian to not find him attractive. He has a 'prettiness' to him that is easily countered by his juvenile sense of humour and rugged, manly impulses to save the day while throwing himself in the path of danger. Girls seem to have a habit of falling for him, hard and fast. Almost as hard and fast as he leaves them behind.

Well, she is most certainly not one of _those_ girls.

She is staring at the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his impeccable cheekbones when his eyes suddenly open. For a moment she doesn't realize they are staring pointedly at each other until he smiles. It is a real smile, albeit a small one, and not his trademark grin that makes all kinds of suggestions. Startled, she smiles back and averts her gaze. Oddly enough, she has never noticed until now how green his eyes are; she thought they were more grey.

Her hands had stopped moving. Flustered, she continues working the muscles in his shoulders, berating herself for getting so distracted over him. Over _Dean_. The guy who insulted REO Speedwagon.

Abruptly, his hand rises and lightly grabs her forearm, halting her. He is no longer looking up at her, but rather at her reflection in the mirror before them. She stares back, confused. There is something unfamiliar about his expression, a faltering sort of earnestness that looks almost alien on his features. He is struggling to say something.

"What?" she asks, making no move to pull away from him.

"You could have died today."

That surprises her. "But you and Sam got me out okay. Saved the damsel, killed the bad guy. All in a day's work, right?"

Suddenly she is very aware of the way his body moves against her with each inhale and exhale. His hand slowly moves up her arm, past her elbow and over her bicep. She freezes, hardly daring to breathe. The little hairs on her skin stand on end as his hand passes over them. It occurs to her that, aside from Sam, she has never seen him touch anyone. Gradually he makes it to the back of her head, and gently pulls her down to him. She allows him to guide her until her chin is resting on his shoulder, and he can comfortably reach all the way back to hug her around the neck. She closes her eyes and wraps are arms around his middle.

Later she will probably laugh at herself for caving in, just like all those other girls must have whenever he reached out to them. But a small part of her wonders if he had ever held them this way – this tender, possessive yet somehow non-sexual sort of hold. The kind you'd expect from Sam, not Dean.

"What's all this for?" she asks softly, gazing at their image in the mirror. He stares back at her, and she swears she can see something akin to anxiety in his eyes. But heaven forbid he should ever have to poke his head through that impenetrable wall around his heart. Heaven forbid he should ever have to become unguarded, for fear of losing someone else who just might mean something to him.

"I'd rather not say."

She knows that no force on Earth could get him to say the real words hiding under the surface.

_Thank you for not dying today._

And knowing that she will probably regret it later, she turns and buries her face in the side of his neck, encouraging him to tighten his hold on her ever so slightly.

"You're welcome," she whispers.

**END**


End file.
